Outlier
by LoveOfLiterature
Summary: Sherlock misinterprets data and now John is gone. Sherlock misinterprets lots of data where John is concerned. He should know by now that his doctor is an outlier. M/M S/J One-shot Don't like don't read.


**Summary**: Sherlock is sure that John is going to leave him.

**Disclaimer**: I do not own BBC or any of their shows (or any shows at all). If I did everyone would love each other a little too much. :D

**Rating**: Teen for very slight swearing and sexual implications. Also, M/M

**Don't like don't read.**

It had been a huge mistake. Sherlock's logical, calculating mind knows this empirically, had known this equally as surely when _it_ had happened; yet his logical mind had allowed his useless body to go ahead unhindered.

Right.

The genius, though he is seriously questioning that particular label at this moment in time, runs his hands through his hair half-hazardly, trying to get all of those impertinent locks out of his face so that it may have a chance to cool down enough to allow the furious blush to recede. Nothing is helping the flush as long as he keeps replaying the scene from minutes ago over and over in his head, unwilling to delete it for all that it has obviously cost him. Why just throw away a jewel that has taken a lifetime to steal?

It suddenly feels very cold in the room that he is standing in. Unthinking, he turns to John's chair to complain, then realizes that his flatmate is not there, will probably never be there again. The scene replays in his mind once again before Sherlock visibly shakes himself and storms upstairs and into the bathroom. That is where people usually storm when emotionally overcome, right? John would be able to tell him…if he were here.

The detective quickly rinses his face with the tap and dries it roughly, standing to glare at his pink reflection in the mirror. His reflection doesn't appear unusually upset; pink, yes, but naturally so from the icy water he has just run over his face. His eyes are icy and calculating as ever. Who could ever look at those eyes and feel anything other than a curious draw to their bizarre _freakish_ color? Not John.

Obviously.

Not wanting to dwell on the reality of his situation, Sherlock takes a closer look at his own face. He's unpleasantly pale, sickeningly so. No wonder John is always concerned about his…health… The detective shakes his head, banishing the measures he could take to improve his complexion if only to…no! _Do not think of it_. Instead of letting his already questionable mind wander any farther unconstrained he reels it back in by looking more closely at his own face in the mirror once more.

His hair hangs in limp curls around his too angular face. The darkness of his hair just further emphasizes his paleness and the curls that could be soft if he ever brushed them just emphasizes the jutting angles of his features . Disgusted with himself, Sherlock looks down from the mirror to banish the pathetic view staring back at him, judging him, calculating worth, finding wanting wherever it gazes.

Only to look down his own body, still clad in the damp suit he had worn when he and John had fished an important suspect out of the Thames earlier that evening. His tiny blackened heart drops at the sight of himself. Too tall and too gangly. No wonder John had…

Yes, anyway. He concedes that he is definitely only a physical type for a certain sort of person to appreciate, but he had been so sure that his mind was what… He had always been so sure of his mind. So proud. John's voice comes through his jumbled thoughts to tell him that pride comes before the fall. He is not sure what pride has to do with falling, or what falling has to do with this situation. _Yes you do, Sherlock!_ Moriarty's voice is an unwelcome guest so soon after John's.

But.

John had always basked in his flat-mate's mind. Had always found it amazing and brilliant and all that other rubbish John spouts when he isn't thinking, which is mostly. Not only was he sure that his mind was what John truly appreciates, but he is, or was, sure in his own deductive skills. John had shown all the signs…

And he can't help but replay The Scene again.

_They are both standing in the doorway, both dripping. Both laughing. John was shaking in his adrenaline high and from the cold of the London night; Sherlock unsure as to what they are laughing about, but John's laugh is infectious. Minutes pass before John realizes that they are still standing in the doorway with their door open to the night. _

_He turns, pushing the taller man gently out of the way, and closes and locks the door firmly behind them. Then looks up and into Sherlock's eyes, presumably to ask about tea. _

John is one of the only people Sherlock can think of that looks him truly in the eyes. Not in defiance or disgust, but to actually look at him and communicate. No one at all outside his family has ever felt comfortable enough to do that, not just once, but _always_. Every day. For any reason. It constantly reminds Sherlock that John is a soldier and a doctor. John is the bravest person he knows. The most human. And while this would normally be an insult, secretly Sherlock loves it. Loves the open, honest, brave man who is not bothered that he is so much shorter than Sherlock and wears his jumpers no matter what anyone says because they remind him of other times that Sherlock wishes he could learn more about, but probably never will.

Not now.

_Being the normal, unobservant person that he is, John only now realizes how close they are. The excited grin that was previously glowing on his face disappears as Sherlock watches his pupils dilate and his cheeks flush. The doctor's lips part slightly and his nostrils flare before he clears his throat and backs away from his flat-mate, running a hand absentmindedly through his hair as he mumbles about tea. _

_Interesting._

_Especially as Sherlock can feel similar reactions taking place in his own body fueled by another wave of adrenalin. It is suddenly empirical that he test an abrupt hypothesis that has taken form in his mind. "John, stop," he commands, effectively halting his loyal friend._

It truly is all Sherlock's fault and he deserves what is currently happening to him. Truly.

_He is curious as to why his friend cringes when he is told to stop, but shrugs it off. Confident in his skills and eager to test his theory, Sherlock doesn't think twice when he strides confidently up to the shorter man, gently grasps the stubbled chin with one hand, and places a gentle kiss on the doctor's lips, before letting go to gauge reactions. Especially to see if they are similar to his own quite definitely positive ones. _

_Something squeezes in his chest as he watches John's eyes flutter open and assess the situation. Triumph is ready to burst from every available outlet as he watches the doctor quickly peek up at his eyes before looking once more at his lips, as if wanting another kiss. _

_That triumph is squashed when he sees John shake himself and step away, looking once again up and into Sherlock's eyes. What haze once clouded, a determination is now set firmly into those tawny orbs. Without any hesitation at all, John, still dripping, easily maneuvers around Sherlock without touching him, grabs his coat, still dripping as well, and turns around once more to face his flat-mate._

_"Right," is all he says before turning and striding out of the flat, disappearing from immediate view. _

_Sherlock cannot even go to the window to watch his best friend walk away from him. From all this…this _shite_ that Sherlock has just placed upon himself like an acid blanket or halo of fire accented with an ice vest. John…his John. Understanding, patient, practical, courageous, wonderful John has finally had enough of Sherlock's antics. Enough of Sherlock. _

_And all Sherlock has is one kiss. His first real kiss. Not that he would admit that to anyone…ever._

Exhausted, and finding that he is still, in fact, in the bathroom, Sherlock strips his cold, damp clothes off and takes a shower, not bothering to grab clean garments. Who will see him if he decides to walk nude through their flat…his flat? Not John.

The shower just makes him more miserable. Before, his physical condition matched his internal condition. Now he is warm and dry in his pajama pants, yet cold and bitter. Without knowing what to do about this he plops himself down onto the couch and turns on the telly. Mind numbing crap will probably help him recover.

He clicks through their…his…limited selection of channels before finding a show he slightly recognizes. An old war show about army doctors. They are American. John is a better man than any of those pathetic actors. How dare they sully the honorable profession of being an army doctor? How dare they laugh and act like idiots one moment, then become serious and somber another? John was _shot_ in a war! John is a hero. And these…_people_…dare to act like him? A hero?

He is well and truly pissed now. He thinks that maybe he will smash the screen and use the electronics in some nasty experiments later. Maybe the experiments will kill him, too.

He doesn't notice John sit down next to him, setting some bags down on the coffee table in front of them.

"Oh nice choice, mate. Not bad _for an American show_," the doctor stage whispers to the broiling detective.

Then Sherlock blinks.

He can't help but let some of the extreme confusion he is feeling leak out of his expression. The show is completely forgotten. "What are you doing here?"

John's open, vacant expression almost makes him smile. Almost.

"I, uh, live here?" the veteran tests, not sure what he thinks Sherlock wants to hear.

Suddenly Sherlock is angry again. He wants to sputter or something equally as foolish, but he instead opts to stand up violently and glare down at his flat-mate. "I kissed you…and you left," he most certainly _doesn't_ growl.

A lovely blush spreads across the doctor's features, and suddenly Sherlock isn't that angry anymore. He sits down and looks again at the man beside him. He is presenting all of the same physical attributes of attraction that he perceived earlier, but now he doesn't trust them. John always is an outlier. He should have taken that into consideration earlier and saved the two of them this horrible situation.

"Right, yeah you did," John says, rubbing his neck and looking down at the bags on the table. This inexplicably makes the blush darken and Sherlock now wants to know what the bags contain. Ignoring the startled protest from his friend, he leans forward and digs into the nearest plastic shopping bag.

It is full of curry. From his favorite curry place.

His sharp eyes focus once more onto the doctor. Who, if it is possible, is blushing even more. "I, well," John begins elegantly. The hand hasn't left his neck. "I just…wanted to this right, you know?" His words stumble out and trip over each other, but Sherlock ignored the delivery, too focused on the message. John continues, "I know this is just the same food we eat all the time, but it's your favorite…right?" Sherlock gives a minute nod so that the doctor's voice may go uninterrupted. "And I thought we could eat and maybe watch some telly…" he trails off, putting the heel of his hand to one of his eyes like he is bone weary and wants to disappear. "Bullocks. It was just an experiment…"

"Wait."

The word takes both men by surprise. Now that he has found his voice, Sherlock dares not stop until he has cleared all confusion. "What you are telling me, John, is that you left, not because you were disgusted by me, but because you want to have a 'date' before we become physically involved?"

The tired man just nods, not bothering to open his eyes or take his hand from his face. Then he freezes. And opens his eyes. One of them is puffy and bloodshot from being abused by a fist. Then he blinks, just for good measure. "What?" he finally sputters, "Disgusted by you?"

It is Sherlock's turn to blush furiously, but he keeps his gaze as cool as possible to counterbalance his body's blatant attempt to undermine his own personal authority. He wants to downplay his mistake, but knows John will never fall for his attempt at nonchalance. He tries anyway. "I assumed," he begins causally, "that your hasty exit was due to an unwillingness to participate due to a lack of attraction towards myself." There. That wasn't so difficult. Very precise and scientific.

Then John snorts.

Then John blushes.

Then John speaks. "I had to leave right then or…" his hand is rubbing his neck again. Definitely a nervous quirk. "…I didn't think my resolve would hold to leave you," he finally admits, peaking up at his flat-mate.

The doctor is instantly assaulted by lips and teeth and hands. Sherlock can't help it. He's running his fingers through his doctor's hair and feeling his doctor's breath mingle with his own and tasting a bit of the Thames and sweat and aftershave. He is reminded that John has not yet had a chance to shower, and this just excites the detective more. John doesn't seem to mind terribly, either.

A few minutes later they both need to come up for air.

And then Sherlock notices the second bag.

"If you purchased food for us, then is the second bag a mundane gift that I will never need or use?" he asks, reaching for the bag.

"Wait, Sherlock, no!"

But it's too late. Sherlock is in the bag, rooting around until all of the items are sitting in a row on the coffee table. John is beetroot. "Well…" the detective finally says, "I must say that this will be exponentially more useful than a mundane trinket." He is trying to give John enough time to compose himself before he bears the full brunt of Sherlock's stare. It also wouldn't hurt if he could lose some of the blush that is trying to form on his own features. The lube and condoms sit on the table innocently. Really, nothing to blush about and all that.

"That wasn't meant for tonight…" John mumbles. He has managed to hide his flush by planting his face solidly into his hands. Overall the solution is working for him.

Sherlock's eyebrow quirks. "Really? Shame…" He quirks his lips into a smirk that he knows the doctor will welcome. Again, he asserts himself into the other man's space and comes dangerously close to his mouth. "Do let me know which night it is meant for," he breathes before getting up and strolling to the stairs. He turns just enough to let John know that he's looking before turning around again and going to his room.

It's John's turn to make a command decision.

_**Okay, so obviously I am American and don't know ANY British slang to save my life. If you catch any errors just let me know and I can fix them. Thanks for reading and reviews are very welcome! I must admit that it has taken me AGES to actually write a Sherlock fic. His character is just so darn hard to pin down. If I am truthful with myself, I am not happy with this story, but I have spent long enough on it to post it anyway.**_

_**And before an outraged citizen has a fit, I LOVE M.A.S.H. Especially the first season.** **Also, I have no idea what's on T.V in London.**_


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